


Time On the Ropes

by Quin



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Death, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-14 15:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17511401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quin/pseuds/Quin
Summary: Matt rediscovers an artefact once given to him by Stick that sends him back in time with unexpected side effects.





	Time On the Ropes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shuufleur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shuufleur/gifts).



> Starts during S3E09.

Sweat ran over Matt’s face, dripping down his neck and soaking his shirt. He fought for breath, yet hit the punching bag over and over again. One punch for every lie, every foe, every secret in his life. For the priest keeping his silence, for the nun unable to speak, for his father not being able to swallow his pride.

His muscles already shaking with effort, Matt positioned himself for another hook. For the kingpin who made him take cover with the Church. He lunged out, imagining Fisk crumpling beneath his fist. But he just sneered at Matt.

‘You’re easily distracted, aren’t you? You call that a difficult childhood? Remember what I had and where I am now in comparison to you.’

The punching bag came back at him full swing. Matt ducked, stumbling backwards. He tripped over a large, unshapely item, and there was a rattling sound. Something met the floor, click-clacking as it rolled past him.

Matt panted. He untangled his feet from his gym bag. He needed to focus, get back on track, but the click-clacking distracted him—at least that’s what he told himself.

Matt walked over, still puzzled by the noise. He didn’t remember taking a watch or an alarm clock along when he left Clinton’s. He picked up the object, a small cylinder. Matt ran his fingers over the material. Smooth, cold, made out of metal, engraved with various symbols. Some of them were numbers and some of them seemed to be pictures, but these were so scratched over, Matt couldn’t quite figure out what kind of pictures they were supposed to be. Where the heck had this come from?

He shook the cylinder, then rolled it around in his hands. Matt noted that the cylinder was made out of four movable discs: platinum, gold, silver, bronze. Only the platinum disc was covered with pictures. Suddenly, realization hit Matt. Stick’s legacy.

‘You must protect this item with your life. Do you understand, Matty? The Hand must never touch this. They won’t need to prolong their lives if they are able to manipulate time at their will.’

Back then, Matt had dismissed it as another one of Stick’s self-important speeches, same as the Black Sky. Look where that had gotten him. He sighed. Absentmindedly, Matt spun the discs. It was all about truths and lies these days. What if he could travel back in time, set things rights, undo all the wrongs wrought by Fisk? Kill him before Fisk even knew that Matt Murdock, that Daredevil, existed?

‘Oh, really?’ The kingpin’s voice spoke again, full of bearing malice. ‘Think you can? The first Black Sky was a child and so was I. You will never succeed.’ He laughed.

Matt clenched the cylinder, his knuckles turning white. The discs abruptly came to a halt, grinding against each other. The clicking noise sped up until Matt’s head spun from all the noise. He tried to steady himself, but to no avail. He couldn’t sense the ring, the wall; it was as if Fogwell’s Gym had been sucked into a vacuum. Matt’s skin tingled, hairs pricking. All he could make out was something metallic clamping his tongue in his mouth. He struggled against emptiness so cold, he wanted, needed to break free to return to the sirens of New York. No matter which way Matt turned, though, there was nowhere for him to go. His temples began throbbing as the clicking escalated into a crescendo of high pitches. Then Matt’s mind went as dark as his senses.

********

A police car’s alarm was blaring in the distance, the sound of every day Hell’s Kitchen. Matt raised his head, relieved to have woken up with his senses back working. Obviously, he had overdone his last boxing session. He still felt nauseous and his limbs ached. He sniffed the air carefully - then stopped in irritation, turned his nose in the other direction and sniffed again. He couldn’t smell the leather of the punching bag, or the traces of old sweat in the air. Instead, cracked wood, the whiff of cheap Scotch, dust clinging to curtains, dust settling on a plushy couch. So out of place, but yet so familiar. Matt furrowed his brows as he took in his surroundings. He found himself sitting on a chair, leaning against a table. The last time he had sat at a table in Fogwell’s Gym was when he had been a kid learning Braille.

Matt fumbled around. Shit. The cylinder. It must have fallen down when he had lost consciousness. He wanted to push himself from the chair, but his feet couldn’t find the ground that quickly. For the second time today, Matt hit the floor. He groaned. Miscalculated the distance. Stupid to assume that his workout wouldn’t have any lingering effects. The door hinges creaked behind him in response.

“Karen?” he squeaked. His voice was somehow off. He sounded like…

“Matty? Did you hurt yourself?” Someone interrupted his thoughts. Matt heard feet rushing to his side. “Who’s Karen? Is someone here with you?”

“Dad?” Matt uttered in disbelief, the high pitch of his voice irritating him once more. He sounded like a child. “Is that you?”

“Who else? Did you hit your head falling?” Matt felt a large, calloused hand touching his forehead, brushing his hair.

Matt shook his head. What was happening here? He pinched himself. He must be dreaming.

“What are you doing there, boy? Come on.” The same hands lifted him up and placed Matt back on the chair. “I can’t see if there is anything wrong. I told you to be more careful. I know you still have trouble adjusting sometimes, but Matty, the match is today. I can’t stay home and babysit you, you know that.”

“Which match?” Matt wished this imagined dad would stop talking. It diverted his thoughts. Would he transform into Fisk again?

“The match against Creel! Carl Creel, the Crusher!” Dad exclaimed. “You're being weird today, Matty. Did anything happen at school? Do I need to talk to your teacher?”

Matt tried to ignore the questions. They weren’t supposed to be real. Focus, focus, he told himself. He was about to get off the chair once more, but his legs were shorter than expected.

“Hey stop, you just fell down. You don’t need to repeat that!” The dad voice scolded, yet there was a trace of concern beneath his irritation.

Matt decided to play along. Today seemed to be the day for hallucinations. “It’s alright, okay, Dad? I just think I dropped something when I first fell. Can you help me, please? Is there a metal cylinder lying on the ground?”

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately, boy? Is that for Math?” Matt heard the imaginary dad rummaging around. “No, there’s nothing. Maybe it rolled under the couch. Sorry, Matty. I can’t take a look now. I’m short on time.”

“Wait, Dad, please wait a moment.” Matt blurted out.

“Let me turn on the TV for you. Everything will be fine. I’ll make you proud, I promise.”

Unexpectedly, Matt was pulled in a tight hug. He felt hot, rough skin against his own, listened to the huff of rapid breathing intermixed with the frantic beating of a heart, smelled the sour mix of musk and sweat produced by rising anxiety. Something wet, salty dropped on his cheek, a nose was snuffled. Matt possessed a vivid imagination, but this whole situation, this place… There was something about it that rang true deep inside him.

Even though it was different than Matt remembered, the absolute familiarity of home called out to him. The warmth of the hug, the soothing voice, the words exchanged, it was nothing like the dad Matt’s mind had fabricated just hours ago. It was the genuine comfort of his childhood.

Sooner than he wanted, Dad let go of him. The front door opened, then shut again, leaving a stunned Matt behind. He wished he could have moved, could have said something to make Dad stay. At the same time though, his thoughts were racing, competing for his attention. He needed to make sense of them, put them in order, but how so?

Matt hopped from the chair, rushing towards the sofa. He bent down, reaching underneath it. However, he couldn’t quite reach the middle. Arms too short. He pushed against the back of the couch, gathering all the strength he possessed, but all Matt was rewarded with was a coughing fit as he gasped for air. The darn thing wouldn’t move a single inch. Matt cursed under his breath. He quickly ran his hands over himself just to be sure. A tiny, skinny boy. The useless body of a ten-year-old who hadn’t trained with Stick yet, who had only been to the gym to accompany his dad.

Stick, fuck the old man for messing with him again. He could have kept that artefact to himself instead of giving it to Matt with no instructions, no rules, not even any explanation regarding the purpose of the cylinder.

Stick. His _walking_ stick. Where did he used to store it? Matt spurted back to the front door. Thank God, it leant against the wall, close to the fridge. He snatched it and went back to the couch, poking beneath it with the cane.

Matt sneezed. Nothing but dust balls. He crawled on all fours, alternatively reaching out with his hands or poking the area with his walking stick. Nevertheless wherever they went, no metallic sound escaped; nothing cold to his touch.

“We’re live on air already. Ladies and Gentleman, I know you’re as eager as I’m to view the match of the year, but you still need to be patient. One more hour and then Battlin’ Jack Murdock will face Carl Creel, the Crusher. This will be a damn fine match, I swear.”

Startled by the TV presenter’s announcement, Matt stopped his search for the metallic cylinder. His hands started trembling as it dawned on him. Shit. One hour, a few rounds and some more minutes, then his father would be dead. Shit. He felt his body temperature rise. Matt got up and started pacing the room. He quickly needed to recount the facts, to accept the truth. The time dial on the artefact, however it worked, had sent him back into the past, not to kill Fisk, but to save a life. He only needed to find a solution to change the events about to happen.

If Matt ran really fast, he might be able to get to the ring in time. Convince his dad that his life was worth more than his pride; convince him that he should lose as that asshat Sweeney wanted him to.

Matt hurried outside. What was the way again? It had been such a long time ago since he and his dad had walked from their apartment to the boxing arena. He inclined his head, listening, sniffing, attempting to locate the sounds and smells of the venue.

Straight ahead and then left, right, straight ahead or was it straight ahead, right, straight ahead and then left? Too much adrenaline. Matt sprinted forward. He had to trust himself that he would identify the right way as he moved along. He might have the body of a child, but his mind was the mind of a grown-up Matt, taught by Stick how to channel his senses to achieve his goal.

If there wasn’t so much at stake. It wasn’t an anonymous crime victim; it was his dad for God’s sake. But giving into his emotions now would mess him up, so Matt moved forward by mentally counting to ten over and over again.

Without a warning, tires screeched, a car next to him came to a halt.

“Young man, where do you think you’re going this late?” someone yelled at Matt. “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

Matt sidestepped the police officer’s outstretched hand, but instead of escaping, he ran straight into the arms of the man’s colleague. The officer snatched Matt by his collar, and he kicked out, aiming for the guy’s balls, but the first police officer was already by his side, restraining him.

“Man, what do we have here, Ray? What a wretch of a boy. Stop fighting us, we’re not your enemy.”

“You don’t understand”, Matt howled, hating how much his voice resembled the one of a whiny brat. “My dad is out there and he needs my help.”

“But that’s what we’re here for, kid. Tell us. Dan and I will help your dad.”

“Only I can convince my dad that he has to do what he has to do,” Matt insisted. “Please let me go.”

“Look Ray, the boy is blind.” Dan put Matt down, then bent forward to speak to him. “Hey, I know you. You’re Matt Murdock, the heroic boy who saved old Will’s life. I remember now.”

“Yeah”, Ray commented. “Now I can guess what the boy is up to. Your dad is going against the Crusher tonight, isn’t he? Shame, we’ve to work. Would’ve loved to see the match myself. But Matt, trust me. You’re better off home, listening to the TV commentator. A live match with a rough crowd isn’t where a little, blind boy should be.”

Dan shoved him onto the backseat of the police car. “We’ll drive you. That way, you won’t miss the start of the match. Be a good son and have a little more faith in your dad. I am sure he can beat Creel. It will be enough if you cheer him on from the safety of the couch. We’ll cheer for him, too.”

********

Matt drummed his fingers on the end table as he waited for the echo of Ray and Dan’s footsteps to fade into the distance. His whole body was itching as he fidgeted on the couch. The announcer was already calling out Jack’s and Creel’s name as they stepped into the ring. It wouldn’t take long until dad’s victory, not long until his face would be a pool of bloody mud.

This time, Matt needed to approach the issue as a whole, including all the facts. Most importantly the fact that his grown-up mind was trapped in his child-self body. The police never would have stopped an adult. It was too late to do any talking to his dad, but Matt firmly believed that he was still able to save his father’s life.

Pricking up his ears, Matt scanned the area around his house, slowly extending his radius. Ray and Dan had parked their police car not far from the boxing venue. Matt wouldn’t make it there anyway. It all came down to him waiting in the alley where Sweeney’s hired mobsters would open fire. Matt just needed to ensure that no police or any other adult caring about a child’s well-being would be out there.

He quietly walked out of the door, taking one step after another, clinging to the shadows. No running, no catching anyone’s attention again. This was the easy part though. His dad not getting shot, he himself not getting shot, fleeing the hired killers - there were so many variables at play, it did Matt’s head in.

He longed for his adult body - the body which was accustomed to fighting, whose muscles instinctively complied, providing the strength to lash out at an attacker, whose flexibility left enemies spinning until they didn’t know front from back anymore.

Matt sighed. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t give it his all. Pebbles scrunched under his boots as he willed himself forward. The path to the alley was littered with gravel, but here and there he kicked some larger stones away, imagining them to be Sweeney and Silke. A crow cawed in protest as one of the stones Matt booted almost hit the bird.

 _When the crows come to the birdfeeder, I kill them with rocks._ It seemed ages ago when Matt had listened to Agent Poindexter’s therapy sessions. Right now, the FBI specialist and Fisk’s schemes felt out of this world. Yet the sentence lingered in his mind. Matt knew his skills were nothing like Agent Poindexter’s. However, every kid could throw a bunch of stones quickly. Not to hit, but too distract. If he threw the stones at Silke and his men before they were able to open fire, they would be thrown off for sure. Especially if they came from another direction, a place they didn’t expect Dad or anybody else to be in. Matt would have to climb on a building to vanish and his father could use the extra seconds to flee. To church. The church offered shelter to people on the run. Maybe Dad could reunite with Maggie there.

A risky endeavor nonetheless. Angry voices floated towards Matt, he smelled fear, heard blood boiling in heat. Matt had to gamble. The clock ticked away. If he wanted to make his plan work, Matt couldn’t take half-hearted chances or abruptly switch to a plan B he hadn’t properly thought through. Time was his enemy number one now.

Matt scooped up several rocks and hastily stuffed them into his pockets. He increased his walking speed, striding towards what had become a volume of cries and shouts from frantic men. He singled out his dad, scrambling for his life in the front, then identified three mobsters chasing him. Silke and two henchmen. Matt calculated their speed from the way their feet bounced up and down on the street, mapping out their positions in the small alley. Almost there.

His head started hurting again, his heart hammered in his chest, his legs wobbled as he staggered forward. Matt fumbled for a stone, but his arms felt like lead. The buzzing of the street light was like sharp needles in his skull. Right, breaking the light would kill the buzzing and kill the light. More likely that a shot would miss. But Matt’s dad still needed to see.

Matt grasped the rock so hard, knuckles bulging as his father came closer and closer. One, two, three. Matt hurled the rock forward. For a tiny moment relief set in as he heard the glass splinter, the buzzing snap.

“Damn it, I almost had him,” Silke swore.

“Don’t go home! Go where Maggie is!” Matt yelled, his voice almost breaking.

“Matty? Is that you?” Dad slowed down. No, no.

“Just fire, you idiots. You’ve a whole clip. Some bullet will find him,” Silke ordered.

Matt began throwing stone after stone, but it was useless. He heard the guns cock.

“Run. I can take care of myself.”

“Matty, what is this madness? I won’t let them hurt you.”

Matt sprinted forward, hoping that his 65 pounds would be enough to push his dad out of the way.

“Get down!” Matt slammed into the rigid figure of his father.

Bullets hurled past as Matt took his father’s hand and dragged him into a corner. He panted.

“Can you lift the gully cover? We can use the sewer system to get to Saint Agnes and the corresponding church.”

“Matty, what the hell… what happened to you, what happened to my son?” Dad wheezed as he removed the heavy lid.

“I’ll explain later, I promise. I just can’t let you die.” Matt wanted to climb on the ladder, but he was still shaking.

“Careful, boy. Let me go first and I can hold onto you.”

Together they made it to the bottom. Matt carefully listened, struggling to blank out the boiling rage that was Silke and his men.

“Matty…”

“Shush, give me a moment to catch my breath.” What would Maggie, more than twenty years younger, sound and smell like? He couldn’t remember, but Matt had to ensure they found the orphanage. People and places changed over the years and that included the tone of their voice, their scent and also the scent of the locations they frequented.

“Dad, can you describe Maggie’s -  I mean, Mom’s voice and smell to me?”

“Whoa. How do you know that your mother is out there?” Jack asked, irritation rising.

“I overheard the priest recently, he slipped up,” Matt quickly lied. At this moment, everything was more plausible than ‘I travelled back in time and got stuck in my ten-year-old body’. Silke and his henchman could still find them. Matt didn’t need to get caught down here, justifying his actions in front of his dad.

“Why do you want to know how she sounds and smells?”

“Please Dad. This would comfort me a lot now.” Another lie, but the truth - _I’ve had enhanced senses since the accident_ \- sounded as bad as the time traveling.

“I never really thought about this. She left years ago. Well back then, Maggie’s voice was clear, like little bells chiming. You know the ones the cows have in that milk commercial. Bright and distinct, I’d say the opposite of a boxer’s slur through his broken teeth. And she always smelled so fresh. Maybe like the flower shop where I bought her valentine’s bouquet. I’m not sure if this really helps, Matty.”

Matt could sense this father’s cluelessness about what to do next, but wanting to put up a brave face in front of his small son. There were more questions coming to his dad’s mind, but asking them would make Jack admit to Matt that he had no plan - something parents desperately avoided.

Matt used his dad’s confusion about how to proceed to adjust his senses one more time. It proved a bit difficult to match a seeing person’s description of past sound and smells to Matt’s own reality. Anyhow, if he didn’t put an effort into it, he wouldn’t succeed. At least Matt possessed control of his senses. They appeared to be even sharper in his child body.

“Come on, Dad, we’ve got to go. I think before long Silke will come looking for us here, he’s not a fool. This way.”

“How can you tell where to go? Have Sweeney and Silke done something to you? Did they threaten you, or, or - you talk like an adult now, did they put those words into your mouth? Matty, I need to know the truth. If you don’t do what they say...? Does that have something to do with that Karen you mentioned earlier on?”

Although Matt tugged at his hand, his father stayed put. Matt wanted to bang his head against the wall, but this would give Dad even more food for thought. How many more stories did Matt need to invent?

“Karen is that new girl in school,” Matt blurted out. “Ehm, Sweeney told me to wait for you in that alley. That it would be nice to greet you there after a match.”

Matt bit his lip. It was the worst thing he had ever said; the sentences didn’t match each other at all. Usually, Matt didn't have trouble bluffing, but he wasn’t in front of a court. He simply couldn’t recall how children were supposed to behave.

“You never mentioned her before,” Jack wondered. “Matty, you’re a horrible liar. I’m disappointed you don’t want to tell the truth. I thought you and me, we’re a good team. No lies, no secrets.”

Matt groaned. He impatiently began tapping his feet. “Dad,” he pleaded, “I asked you to trust me. I told you I’ll explain it later. We need to get to safety first.”

“I want to, Matty, but I can’t help feeling that Sweeney and Silke tricked you. I mean no harm, but you’re just a child and they’re hardened, well, they know how to work people - even me - and I’m a grown-up.”

“Why should they trick me? You told them you would forfeit the match as they wanted. You just decided later that you wouldn’t go ahead with it, right?”

The hell, Matt thought to himself, this was harder than he expected. He gave up on the idea that he could pretend to be a real ten-year-old. If he couldn’t fool his father, he shouldn’t waste energy on that, but convince his dad otherwise to move on.

“This is another thing you shouldn’t know, Matt. Maybe Sweeney and Silke thought I wasn’t earnest about it and then decided to threaten you. This is it, isn’t it?” His father threw his arms up in desperation, tearing at his hair.

“I overheard them. Go down in the fifth, right? They say that when one of your senses goes down, the others improve. Dad, since my accident my hearing is a lot better. Believe me.”

“Okay. But the other things you said still make no sense. The Karen girl might not be important. I just can’t get my head around you waiting in that alley. I didn’t say anything to anyone, not until I left you at home. I mean, you are used to losing me now and then. Or winning now and then. But you always waited at the kitchen table.”

“Yes true.” Matt paused as the sound wave of light footsteps passed his ears. “Dad, someone is at the gully. We’ve got to move for real now.”

Finally, Jack took Matt’s hand. Matt needed a moment to retrace what he hoped was Maggie’s scent, and then he began rushing forward. The corridors of the canals stretched on and on. His sneakers pinched Matt’s toes awkwardly, blisters starting to form. His sides hurt him. Matt realized his tiny lungs didn’t hold enough air capacity to keep up with his running speed.

The light footsteps made up more and more ground. Unlike Silke, his henchman was tall, lean, athletic. Not a boxer, but a runner. A flexible man you trusted with a knife or gun.

The sound around Matt formed a tunnel. Damn it. His senses had directly led them into a part of the sewers that ran straight ahead. No escape to any branches; they could only move forward and hope they would reach an exit before their pursuer would catch on.

A coughing attack shook his whole body. Matt had underestimated his childlike form once more. It not only lacked muscle mass, it also lacked stamina. Matt felt his father slow down again, so that he would not lose his son.

Almost drowned out by his fits, Matt heard a bullet fly out of its muzzle. He couldn’t get a single word out, just cough cough cough.

The sound of skin and flesh being ripped apart penetrated his senses. The smell of burnt tissue and lead made him cough even more. The coppery taste of blood hung in the air. The gun cocked another time. This time though, it produced only clack clack sounds. An empty clip. Matt prayed to God that the henchman didn’t have a reserve. Somehow, he wasn’t able to muster up the strength to scan for it.

“Dad?” Matt croaked when he finally managed to open his mouth.

“Matty, stay back. I’ll handle this. I think he has no more bullets. If I advance on him now, he’ll be surprised. Otherwise, he’ll just stab us in the back. Sweeney’s henchmen have both guns and knives.”

Helplessly, Matt had to listen to Jack turning around, his blood trickling all over the floor. Time stretched on as two pair of hurrying footsteps approached each other. A draft flowed back past him, and another one. Bones crushed on bones along with hoarse cries echoing off the walls.

Matt felt frozen on the spot as he listened to his father fight. This wasn’t real, wasn’t it? If he woke up it would be in Fogwell’s Gym to the sound of his cell phone announcing Agent Nadeem’s call. Matt’s throat was dry as a parchment. He swallowed several times, but it didn’t give him the ability to speak back either. His mind told him that he had to return to his dad’s side. His body told him though that his energy was down to zero.

If hell’s eternity existed, this had to be it.

“Matty,” Jack rasped finally, “Matty, even with a bullet wound, I can throw a punch. Yes, I can throw a punch. He went KO in round two.” His dad let out a dark, bittersweet laughter. “Murdocks get hit a lot, but we always get up. I figure the nuns can patch me up. Come on boy, hold up to your promise.”

He offered Matt his hand. Together they limped ahead. Given their state, Matt should have given himself and his dad all the time in the world to reach the exit closest to Maggie’s whereabouts. However, as his energy slowly came back to him, so did his senses recover. Time proved to be their enemy again. The bullet was stuck inside Jack, it had pierced an artery. The trickling had turned into frequent dripping – his dad would bleed to death if he didn’t get any medical help soon. It was no use putting a simple bandage on it; the major source of the blood loss was internal.

Jack’s breathing became more and more shallow.

“Dad, please stay awake. It isn’t far anymore. Maggie will get you an ambulance. Bear with me. Here, here is the ladder.”

Then Matt remembered. For Christ’s sake, there was another gully cover his puny self wasn’t able to move.

“Dad, can you do me a favor? You only need to climb and push that lid away, okay?” A wave of guilt washed over Matt. He should have paid more attention to the time dials. He should have deciphered the pictures first before playing around with the movable discs. He could have had his adult body and then disaster would have never struck.

Somehow his dad managed to get his hands and feet on the ladder. Matt couldn’t bear hearing his father climbing up, fearing that every moment Dad would lose his footing and fall to his death. The noise of a heavy crunch eventually sent Matt over, bile was rising up his throat and seconds later, he heaved and then violently threw up. He wiped his mouth once, twice. His stomach continued to rumble though.

Matt rubbed his face, trying to clear his head. Dad, what was Dad doing? He scrambled on the ladder, hands ice cold, not wanting to flex. With sheer will, Matt forced himself up on to street level. There, he found his father unconscious, lying face down on the tarmac.

Matt didn’t waste any time. He stumbled towards the orphanage and hammered on the front door.

“Maggie, Maggie, is anyone in there? It’s Dad, he needs an ambulance. Urgently.”

The door immediately swung open. “Well, look look, who is there and brought a little present?” A chill wandered down to Matt’s bones as he recognized Silke’s dirty cackle. “Surprised? I know Jack long enough to guess he would try hiding with Maggie. He’s as good as dead and soon, you will be, too.”

Before Matt’s mind was able to catch up with reality, Silke snatched him by the collar and pushed the gun barrel in his face. “Oh, if you could see your dad now, making such a lovely puddle of blood. It would have been some easy money for him, but no… Orders not followed must be punished.”

“Please, no, please not the kid.” A young woman’s voice pleaded, hardly choking back her tears. Maggie. Mom. Cold sweat ran down Matt’s forehead, his breath becoming even shallower. This was the mother who had abandoned him as a baby, but who had yet to make the decision not to take care of Matt after his father’s death. 

“There must be no witnesses.” Silke insisted, cocking the gun.

 _‘So this is it,_ ’ Matt mused to himself. He would die now alongside his father. It felt sort of unreal. Not the feel of cold steel on his temple. Not the smell of Silke’s bad breath – a mix of hooch and cheap cigars. Not the sound of his father’s blood seeping out of him. Not the taste of myrrh – the one Maggie used to create herbal medicine with. This was all too real.

It was the mess Matt had gotten himself into. How had he been so presumptuous to believe that he was meant to be his father’s savior? Now Matt would pay the price for it. Instead of sticking to the mess that was Wilson Fisk, Matt would possibly wreak more havoc on the people of Hell’s Kitchen by erasing himself out of the timeline. Or maybe it was for the better.

“He’s just an innocent boy wanting to help his dad. He’s blind. I beg you. By the love of God, spare him.” Maggie’s voice cut through Matt’s thoughts. His ears were buzzing as each and every of her words slipped in. What would he have told this younger version of his mother if he had just more time? There wasn’t even time to contemplate this as Matt’s senses picked up a small change in Silke’s attitude. He was about to start a prayer, only a part of his brain registered what Silke was saying.

“Alright alright. Nobody should say that old Silke has no heart for children, especially cripples. Put in a good word for me to him above, will ya?” Silke removed the gun from Matt’s face, spun around and fired.

The bang deafened Matt’s ears, the smoke filled his nose, making him gag. The bullet blasted past, then drilled itself into soft neck flesh.

“Maggie. Mom -, oh God, oh God, no -.” Matt dropped to his knees. He should have been more careful. Instead of accepting the inevitability of his death, he should have looked more closely at the person who was his mother after all, anticipated what Silke would do.

“I am sorry, kiddo. That’s all on your dad’s foolishness. At least they will be together, unless Jack goes to hell.” Silke uttered a false laugh as he strolled away.

Matt crawled towards his mother’s body, clutching her hand with his. “Somebody call an ambulance, somebody has to call an ambulance,” he yelled, but his senses told him that there was nothing to be done anymore.

“Mom, I am so sorry.” Tears rolled down Matt’s face as he stroked her hair.

“What for, my boy? Did Jack tell you about me?” Maggie’s voice began slowly to fade. “I wish I could have made it up to you.”

“Me too, me too. Mom.”

Matt didn’t know how long he sat there on the hard pavement, cradling his cold mother, until Ray and Dan took him away.

 ********

“You’re quite different than I expected.” Stick inhaled deeply. “Oh. Time particles all over you. Oh.” He raised his eyebrows.

“I know what you’re here for, boy. I reckon that one messed you quite up. Tell me all about it. And don’t lie to me. But I believe you’re aware that lying to me is fruitless.” Stick sneered. “You want to make amends. I am not sure though if I can ever let you have it again. You must prove yourself to be a true warrior of the Chaste first.”

**Author's Note:**

> Trope/freeform tag: Character and Younger Self Switch Places Unexpectedly.  
> Prompt: Matt switched places with his younger self, before his dad was killed. What does he do?
> 
> Thank you to my betas DianaSolaris and akaparalian.


End file.
